


cigarette daydreams (nearly brought me to my knees)

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Meet Differently, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Inspired By TAB, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mind Palace, No Mary Morstan, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, a bit psychological this one, dont examine the details too closely, johnlock au, sherlock dreams of victorian john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 14:12:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6808444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>they began when sherlock was 12 years old, the dreams. In them he was much older and madly in love with a blonde that shared his penchant for death, crime, blood, passion but that's all they were - dreams. could something that beautiful only exist within the realms of sleep?</p>
            </blockquote>





	cigarette daydreams (nearly brought me to my knees)

**Author's Note:**

> cigarette daydreams  
> you were only seventeen  
> soft speak with a mean streak  
> nearly brought me to my knees

The ability to distinguish between reality and a dream like world that one constructs when sleeping is something that Sherlock Holmes has never lacked. As a child he'd ran straight to Mycroft's room whenever he had a nightmare. He found no words of comfort nor coddling within those walls. Instead there were simple facts in place of emotion - "Dreams are merely a series of thoughts or images that the mind constructs during the resting period. Every picture and word within that realm is nothing more than a hallucination occurring within the R.E.M. cycle of sleep. Go back to bed now before mummy notices you're missing."

And yet they brought Sherlock comfort. He would return to his bed afterward and sleep soundly having heard a logical explanation for the ugliness that made itself known at times.

Then there were the dreams.

They'd began at the age of twelve and, contrary to the nightmares that mainly consisted of a man with eyes nearly black and a sing song voice, they were anything but scary. In them he saw an older version of himself with hair slicked back and a stand offish demeanor with flashes of softness. He watched as this version of himself kneeled beside of the deceased and inspected them like meat that had long gone sour. In these dreams the streets were alight with gas lamps and littered with horse drawn carriages. He could easily pinpoint its exact location in modern day as if he'd been there before in another lifetime.

Somehow this did not bother him, in fact it fascinated him.

However, what kept him tossing and turning at night was a shorter man of the same age bracket with grayish blue eyes and dirty blonde hair who looked at that Sherlock in a way that no one ever had or ever would. He couldn't make out the words that the man spoke but he could see the two of them bickering and hear himself throwing about a frustrated _WATSON._ In some of the dreams he addressed the man by his Christian name which seemed almost scandalous but neither seemed to care. _John,_ he'd whisper with a smile as the man passed the daily newspaper to him over breakfast.

It felt right somehow.

Sherlock told no one about the man named John Watson and spent much of his adolescence analyzing the broken moments (memories? _impossible_ ) much to the frustration of Mycroft who frequently had to hunt him down for mummy. He'd find Sherlock huddled over stacks of notebooks with scribbles on the front and back of every page as well as history books dating from the early 1800s to modern day. Mycroft would roll his eyes and make a snide comment about Sherlock's hobby then lead him to mummy who insisted they all dine together for meals despite the ever growing tension in the household. It had only multiplied and loomed about like a dark cloud when mummy had dropped her entire academic career in order to become a stay at home mum.

**+**

Sherlock was sixteen when mummy insisted he see a psychologist and he'd immediately sized the man up - had deduced (aloud) that he was on his second marriage and impatient to end the session as he'd made plans to have lunch with his mistress (none other than his wife's second cousin) and this had earned him a look of scorn from the man with beady eyes and a glare from mummy.

The psychologist took a deep breath in then out, adjusted his clothing (the salmon button up had been a gift from his mistress; received last week three days after his birthday, Sherlock had verbally deduced) then attempted to project a calm aura that he clearly wasn't feeling.

The rest of the visit had gone as well as could be expected and Sherlock left with a diagnosis that labeled him as _high functioning sociopath_ , much to mummy's distress.

After dinner that night he'd hidden on the stairs that led up to his bedroom as well as the guests quarters and listened as mummy sniffled and recounted the entire event in great detail. He picked out words like "antisocial" "unstable" "incapable of empathy" and "I'm sorry" and filed them away in an area of the brain that he was putting the final touches on. It was a mixture of the dreams he continued to have blended with touches of modernity. Each room was lit with gaslights, featured finely detailed rugs with floral tones, specimens in jars and dusty books collecting on tall bookshelves but most importantly John Watson was there.

Sherlock had constructed a room especially for him. It stood in vast contrast to the others with its earth tones, gilded mirrors, stacks of papers and pens resting on a writing desk, heaps of books neatly aligned on a black cherry stained bookshelf, wastebasket full of discarded stories (his John loved to write) and a fresh pot of tea forever at his disposal. This was Sherlock's favorite room and frequently the other version of himself disappeared behind its door with John following.

After that night mummy had dropped the subject altogether and threw herself into focusing on he and Mycroft more. It wasn't a pleasant change.

**+**

"Oi there's the freak again. Heard he sleeps all day when he's not hanging 'round the morgue askin' questions about aortic valves and whatever he's on about."

Sherlock overheard the comment in passing and allowed himself a minute to cringe before straightening his back and holding his chin higher as he passed by the offender. The boy was around Sherlock's age (19 at most) and, Sherlock deduced to himself, suffering from one leg that was shorter than the other thus causing him chronic pain and due to poor genetics he frequently had bouts of high blood pressure. The tear on his well worn jumper indicated that he'd been in a recent skirmish which also accounted for the bruise on his left cheek - this one had no problem with finding trouble. In fact he seemed to instigate it. 

What an utter waste of oxygen.

Sherlock would greatly enjoy studying his brain and picking apart each section piece by piece. As it were the boy had a life expectancy of 25 years. Sherlock could wait that long.

None the less he brushed past the boy as if he hadn't read his entire life story in one swift glance. This, at least, gave Sherlock an air of confidence.

He'd sought refuge at university from the moment he was old enough and left his family home - had chosen a nearby flat that he shared with a boy by the name of Victor Trevor. Life wasn't ideal at the current moment with assignment deadlines looming, very little sleep (this caused him great distress as sleep meant he could slip away into a world that meant danger, scandalous stolen kisses, crime scenes and dancing behind closed curtains) and hardly enough funds to scrape together a decent meal.

It was this that Sherlock was focused on when a hand clapped him on the back. He looked up to see sharp green eyes and blonde hair messily sticking up around the edges from a long standing habit of running fingers through it.

_Victor Trevor._

"I've been looking for you everywhere. I checked the morgue but nothing new came in today so you weren't there or back at the flat - thought maybe you'd be passed out by now. I got worried when I couldn't find you."

Sherlock scoffed. It seemed that everyone had a tendency to zero in on his sleeping habits.

Still this was Victor and despite it all Sherlock was quite fond of him. He was unconventionally handsome and certainly not the first male Sherlock had kissed though they'd never moved past that particular stage and he'd never been able to find a label that fit whatever they were.

Mates who occasionally snogged on the sofa or during dating dry spells (on Victor's behalf, Sherlock wasn't interested) perhaps?

Someone to fill the gap of a relationship Sherlock could only find in his dreams?

Either way, it worked for them though Victor was worlds different than John Watson. He was soft where John was rough around the edges, he found childish and ridiculous things funny and spent too many nights at the local pub. More than once Sherlock had found himself imagining that he was kissing John rather than Victor and maybe this was why he'd always managed to strike out with either sex. No one could ever possibly stack up against a man that didn't even exist yet still managed to captivate Sherlock.

Perhaps mummy was right and he wasn't mentally healthy.

"Four hours of sleep is sufficient for the moment. I had a project that required my attention," Sherlock answered as he brushed past a group of freshmen who were all but taking up the entire sidewalk.

Victor threw an arm over Sherlock's shoulders and grinned. He was familiar with Sherlock's fascination with the deceased, with crime in general, with the gruesome parts of life that most would rather turn a blind eye to and yet he didn't criticize. If anything he was curious and often prodded Sherlock for details.

"It involves a sheep's liver and arsenic," Sherlock stated.

"Go on," Victor urged.

"The specimen ingested more than 50 liters of arsenic daily via drinking water and I'm studying the effects of such a poison on the liver. Apparently it's more acceptable to acquire animal specimens as opposed to the recently deceased and tragically there appears to be a lack of arsenic poisoning victims within the past ten years."

They rounded a corner as Victor hailed a cab and rubbed his hands together. It was mid October and the air was colder than usual. He'd forgotten his gloves at their flat.

"How did they manage to feed the poor thing arsenic?," he questioned.

Sherlock silently took his hands in his own and rubbed heat into them before surrendering his gloves.

"Your body temperature is dropping, here. Take these," he offered as he placed them in Victor's palm.

"Well?," Victor continued as he tugged the gloves on with hands shaking from the cold. Most people would thank the other but that wasn't how they worked and, like most things between them, the courtesy was implied.

"In a lab of course. Under well regulated conditions with daily intake measurements, urine samples, blood samples and bland food so as to not irritate the stomach thus skewing the results," Sherlock answered as he slid into the cab behind Victor.

Victor nodded.

"You'll keep me posted on its status?"

Sherlock smiled. Victor could be quite charming when he wasn't romancing the ladies (never the men, only ever Sherlock) or running up a tab at the pub.

"Naturally."

Victor took Sherlock's hand in his own and gently squeezed. "You're resting now, I presume?"

"For the moment, yes."

By this he meant that he was free the rest of the evening and open to company.

Victor cocked an eyebrow - "Later then?"

Yes, later. Later Sherlock would kiss him and pretend that he was a familiar ghost, would tip his head back as Victor pressed wet kisses along his neck, would return the favor in full then retire to his bedroom alone and feeling lonely in a way that other people couldn't remedy.

*****

"You embellished, John. I don't know why you insist upon portraying me as some sort of dapper gentleman in The Strand. Clearly I'm not as your readers think I am," Sherlock complained as he lazily stretched out in his chair by the fire.

John's was across from his own though they were a mismatched pair and Sherlock found that quite fitting.

"First thing tomorrow morning I'll draw up a column about how London's most famous detective - apologies - _consulting_ detective - spends his nights in his flatmates bed," John retorted as he sat in his own chair and brought a cup of hot tea to his lips.

"And who might that be?," Sherlock teased with a smirk.

John carefully replaced the china teacup to its saucer and sat up, scooted to the edge of his chair and leaned his elbows onto his knees with a devilish grin.

"Mrs. Turner of course."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned forward in order to better reach John.

"Since when does Mrs. Turner sport a mustache?"

John stroked the shaven area above his upper lip where his mustache had resided until last week when Sherlock had complained about bristled kisses. "Obviously she doesn't."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh at that mental image. "Mmm you're right, she doesn't."

"How shall I portray you then, Mr. Holmes?," John chided as he placed a hand on Sherlock's knee.

"Would you say that I'm...charming? Witty?," Sherlock purred.

The hand on Sherlock's knee inched up to his thigh. "At times though mostly you're erratic and prone to fits about mundane things."

Sherlock scoffed. "I do not consider your hiding my tobacco and pipes to be mundane. Childish perhaps."

 John scooted closer. "In all fairness we agreed that you'd smoke less as Mrs. Turner has been complaining about how it sticks to the drapes. And then there's the dust of course."

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Dust is elegant."

For most, arguing meant disdain and slamming doors but for the two of them it played out more like the beginnings of something that would never grace the pages of The Strand.

"Mmm no it's not," John countered as he skimmed both hands over Sherlock's trousers and curved them over his hips.

"One could easily measure the time frame of a crime scene by measuring the dust along the victim's bookshelf and thereby checking for disruptions."

John slid a hand under Sherlock's waistcoat and brushed his thumbs along the thin button up. "This isn't a crime scene."

Sherlock's pulse kicked up and he was about to deliver a scathing retort that would further explain the scientific reasoning behind maintaining dust when Mrs. Turner bustled through the door with a tray of fresh tea.

"Oh dear," she squeaked as she glanced away from the two of them and began to collect John's abandoned teacup.

It wasn't that she hadn't been witness to a similar scene more times than she'd like to recount but each one took her by surprise. Still she kept their secret and doted on both of them, encouraged it really and turned away clients when she knew they were...occupied.

John broke away from Sherlock and cleared his throat. "Let me help you with those."

Sherlock adjusted his shirt and waistcoat while her back was turned and disappeared into the kitchen to work on a project involving arsenic.

*****

In the modern world Sherlock woke in a cold sweat, alone in his own bed. He tried in vain to go back to sleep and having failed terribly he decided to make a pot of tea and join Victor in whatever tedious show he was indulging in this week.

**+**

Years passed with Sherlock abandoning university as well as Victor (who'd promised to write though they both knew he wouldn't and if he did Sherlock wouldn't continue the correspondence. they'd had a nice run, it was over). He'd managed to land a job (if you could call it that) working alongside Detective Greg Lestrade of New Scotland Yard and spent most days correcting what he'd gotten wrong. Sherlock had managed to kick a drug habit with the help of Mycroft who'd now secured his place in the British government (Sherlock was grateful for the many nights Mycroft spent at his side making sure he didn't die in his sleep, didn't choke on his own vomit but he'd never say so) and life was rather consistent albeit empty.

He still dreamed of those blue eyes at night and, as such, he'd started staying up later and later until his back ached from sitting at the kitchen table with his microscope.

Lonely.

He was dreadfully and achingly lonely. Despite distractions (cigarettes, a day job as the world's only consulting detective, drugs on the rough days when he could hardly drag himself out of bed in order to be a functioning human being) that gnawing feeling in his chest refused to leave.

And so he found himself striking up a mostly one sided conversation with a man by the name of Mike Stamford. They weren't mates, not even close, but they spoke here and there while Sherlock was inspecting cadavers and commandeering cases. He frequently visited St Barts and lent medical assistance when needed. 

"You know what you need? A flat-mate. Getya someone to split the rent with and keep the flat warm. That's what you need," Mike stated as he stirred a plastic spoon around in his coffee cup.

Sherlock sighed and pushed away from the specimen he'd been muttering to himself about. "A what?"

Mike smiled softly - "A flat mate."

Sherlock considered this then made a face - "Who'd want me for a flat mate?"

Mike sat down his cup and grinned harder - "You know...you're the second person to ask me that today."

**+**

Sherlock was leaning over pipettes when Mike strolled in with a familiar face. He froze mid stance and locked eyes with the man who'd accompanied Mike.

In turn, the man cocked his head to the side and stared back as if he were trying to place where he'd met Sherlock. Surely they'd bumped into one another at a coffee shop or... _no_. He would've chatted him up if so. 

Mike stared at the two of them with eager eyes as if he knew that he'd managed to get something right for once.

"This is-," he began.

Sherlock dropped the pipette and it hit the ground with a soft thud. "-John Watson," he interrupted.

Somehow, by some odd twist of fate if such a thing existed, the man that had haunted Sherlock's dreams since the age of twelve was standing right in front of him. He appeared younger and dressed more modern and modest. His dirty blonde hair wasn't slicked back and he carried a cane with him (much like the John who existed in Sherlock's dreams had done though he'd carried it less frequently as time went on).

He would know that face in a crowded room, would recognize those hands with his eyes closed, would remember the taste of that kiss for as long as he lived. 

John took in Sherlock's frame - the thin waist, curls, the delicate bow shaped lips, pale skin and cheekbones, eyes that his mother had once called beautiful in that they were never confined to one shade but rather they were many at the same time.

"Sherlock Holmes," John replied; voice dropping to a near whisper.

Mike took this as his queue to leave but not before clapping them both on the back and throwing a "no need to thank me" over his shoulder.

"But that's impossible," Sherlock murmured as he took John's hand in his own and studied the curves, the lines - searched for anything that might prove him right.

"I know you," John said as he studied Sherlock's face.

Sherlock looked up and met his eyes, continued to hold his hand. "That's illogical, impossible. Dreams are nothing more than a hallucination during the R.E.M. cycle."

John gave Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze. "Sherlock, look at me. Not...not like I'm an experiment. Really look at me. You _know_ me."

Still Sherlock shook his head, unbelieving.

"You can't make anything easy on me, can you?," John mumbled before tugging Sherlock closer and pressing their lips together.

Before Sherlock had a chance to register that John's lips were as warm and soft as they looked or that they tasted faintly of peppermint and a home that until this moment, he hadn't known existed outside the realm of his dreams, John broke the kiss and brushed his nose against Sherlock's.

A million memories flooded Sherlock's brain - kissing John in front of the fireplace at his (no, _theirs_ ) flat (it was January, this he knew by heart), touching him with trembling hands and apologizing because they were cold, unwrapping a pocket watch on a chain that John had bought him one Christmas, arguing over dust, getting drunk on New Years and passing out on the stairs, playing the violin for John on nights when he couldn't sleep, leaving a trail of kisses along a shoulder blade as John slept, that blessed moment in front of Reichenbach Falls where they'd confessed their feelings for one another for the first time - kissing him there until they were both breathless.

They'd all been a dream and yet they'd felt so real.

_No._

They'd loved one another then. Honest to god _loved._

And yet they were here in the 21st century and John was flesh and blood. He was blue eyes and a heartbeat that Sherlock pressed his palm against just to be sure.

"John," he whispered.

"I remember you," John replied as he placed a hand over Sherlock's heart, felt it beating wildly in his chest.

The words wouldn't come, were too heavy to put into flight so Sherlock nodded instead.

"Can I...?," he asked after a moment.

"God yes."

He closed the distance between them and all at once the ache in his chest seemed to lessen.

John kissed like he'd memorized every inch of Sherlock, as if he'd been waiting ages for this very moment. He cupped Sherlock's face and his lips parted to deepen the kiss, brushed his tongue against Sherlock's softly, slowly.

Sherlock gently nipped at John's bottom lip which made him smile - _you know that about me, don't you? we've kissed a million times in a thousand dreams. I've dreamed of you for so long. I've wanted. I've waited,_ he thought to himself.

Time seemed to pass fluidly around them as if they were standing in the middle and everything else ceased to exist.

Sherlock broke the kiss and pressed his forehead against John's. "I've missed you."

He'd missed John for more than half of his life, had found comfort only in his dreams. He'd told mummy once when he was 14 that if he were Sleeping Beauty he wouldn't want to wake up because surely in dreams she could be happy. She'd kissed his cheek and reminded him that fairytales were only stories and "you can't live your life with eyes closed, Sherlock. eventually we all have to wake up."

She was right.

John smiled. He understood more than most that it was possible to miss someone you'd never met, to love them just the same.

"I've missed you too, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock grinned widely - "I assume this means you'll be my flat-mate."

"Your violin?"

Of course John would remember that.

"It's there. I'll play it for you."

"Mrs. Turner?"

Sherlock stepped back and took John's hand in his own, intertwined their fingers. "Correction. _Hudson._ "

John nodded. "Shall we?"

The abandoned pipette remained on the floor, the only witness to dreams becoming reality. They walked out hand in hand and passed Mike who smiled and nodded at them. He wasn't surprised in the least.

As they slid into a cab Sherlock thought to himself that perhaps he should find that odd but stranger things had happened.

Mycroft would hear all about this tomorrow, Sherlock would make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so I'm lazy and came up with victor's physical description on my own and any relationship between them in this fic was created by me but I do not own any of the characters. sherlock did indeed have a drug addiction and that's addressed but I didn't want this fic to be too dark so I didn't elaborate on that. 
> 
> if you read and understood this trainwreck THANK YOU and you deserve cheesecake and brownies and all things nice. title is from "cigarette daydream" by cage the elephant
> 
> mrs turner = mrs hudson (really had to refrain from calling her hudders because that's what I call her on my tumblr but yeah I'm rambling now, I'll stop)


End file.
